Dear Mr Bauer
by sentient1212
Summary: Jack faces his future, and starts a new life.


Dear Mr. Bauer

Chapter 1

He'd never been bitter towards the agency. It hadn't been an institutional thing, not exactly, although that sounded strange to him. It was a group-think, all government agencies were, but CTU had never seemed that way to him, maybe because he had fit in so easily. He had always chafed against the regulations, of course, broken far more than his share, but only when he'd had to, to accomplish his missions, to deliver the results it demanded, but no one had ever believed more fervently in the job, in the goals of CTU, in everything it stood for, in everything it did to serve and protect his country. No, it was the people, the Powers that Be, who had unceremoniously booted him out, left him wandering in the wilderness, when he had given it everything he had.

When the last nightmare was over - when Saunders was dead, when the virus was contained, when he was acquitted on the agency charge of murdering Nina Myers, when he had finished rehab - on the day he had gotten home from the program he had found The Letter.

"Dear Mr. Bauer," it had started. "It has been determined that you have violated Rule 37, Section 12, Subsection C(3) of the Employee Code of Conduct of the Counter-Terrorist Unit. Accordingly, your employment is hereby terminated. We wish you well in your future endeavors. Very truly yours..."

He had sat in silence for minutes, not even recognizing what he was holding. The words were plain enough on the paper, but the sense of them wasn't there. Being a CTU agent was what he was. Now he wasn't.

Chapter 2

He slept late for the first time in his life when he wasn't ill, wasn't recuperating from injuries sustained in the line of duty, and he moped around his house, for he didn't have anywhere to go, he had nothing to do. The Letter had contained a pamphlet on unemployment benefits, but he couldn't bring himself to apply. The thought of taking money for doing nothing rubbed him the wrong way.

The pot of coffee didn't help; the caffeine he'd always drunk now only made him jumpy, and he already felt like he was coming out of his skin.

He sank bank into his couch, willing himself to stay still, to consider his options. As he reviewed his skills, his talents, he gave a bitter laugh. His life could be summed up easily, for what was he after all? A trained killer. Superb, one of the best, but still, a trained killer. That would look great on a resume, he thought with increasing bitterness. I'm sure there are lots of companies looking for people like that. Lots of employment agencies who'll place out-of-work assassins.

His thoughts turned to Kim. She had avoided him since his discharge from rehab, and he was sure that wasn't all of it. Chopping off Chase's hand, that was probably the main thing, even though it had saved his life, that had gotten lost in her mind, in everyone's mind. Chase would have died otherwise, the virus would have been released into the school, into the whole neighborhood and maybe into the whole city and thousands would have died, but all anyone could think about was how he had mutilated Chase. Jack still grieved about it, even though he knew how necessary it had been, Chase himself had known, had consented, but even Chase was bitter, and Jack didn't blame him.

No, he had no options. His meager savings wouldn't last long, and Jack knew he would have to sell his townhouse, the one he'd bought when he sold his house after Teri died. He couldn't bring himself to live there after that, with all of its memories, good and bad. Kim had acquiesced, although she'd spent her entire childhood, her whole life in that house, for she too wasn't happy there, and she'd readily agreed that they had to move. When they found the townhouse near Marina del Rey she was happy, both with the house and the location, for it was popular with young people, and she didn't care that Jack was pleased because the local high school was good.

School had stopped being important to her even before she lost her mother, and she certainly didn't care afterward. Even though she'd experienced horror that night and day it hadn't taught her that she wasn't ready to be a grown-up, that she was still a child who belonged in school, and she continued her rebellion, graduating from high school only because she had to but refusing to go to college, more than partly because her father so wanted her to, but also because she was tired of restraints. So she'd taken the job as a nanny and refused to see Jack, wanting to hurt him, not caring how she contributed to his guilt, for she wanted to see him suffer, making it happen in the best way she knew how.

Her involvement with Chase had started as a further slap at Jack, for she knew that he would never approve of a relationship with a man so much older than she, especially a field agent. She was more than surprised when she found herself developing real feelings for him and she grew up some, starting junior college, studying computers, letting Jack get her a job at CTU. She didn't even mind seeing her father again, although her resentment towards him still smoldered. But she managed to hide it well.

Chapter 3

Jack had done the best he could. He'd taken time off after Teri's death, moped, tried to come to terms, adjust, although he refused therapy because he was solitary, not able to open up, and when the call came from Palmer he'd reluctantly agreed to help. He'd been surprised when he fell into the old pattern, when he found the old training, the need to help, to participate in the mission come back, overwhelm him, and he knew that he was where he needed to be, doing what he did so well, what he was meant to do. He resisted leaving when he found Joe, who led him to Nina, and he insisted on interrogating her, and from then on it was 'his' mission, and the others had recognized it, for he was still the best. Despite everything, the long lay-off, the trauma of losing Teri, no one could top him, and their need for him in that crisis was more important than lingering resentments and petty jealousies. Once again Jack had saved the day, and his reward for it was a demotion. He gave a bitter laugh at the memory.

He hadn't minded, not really, he told himself, when Tony, who had been his subordinate, not even his number one but his number two, became his boss. Hell, he admitted, he minded like hell. But he'd learned to live with it, telling himself that at least he didn't have to deal with the administrative sh!t and he could concentrate on field ops, where they basically left him alone to do what he did best. That he had to run things past Tony had always chafed, but mostly he'd gotten his way, and the few times Tony had thrown up road blocks Jack had stared him down, intimidated him with what Tony had to acknowledge were Jack's superior skills. So Tony had folded and Jack had done things his way, and the missions he planned were accomplished, successfully. Which only made Tony look good, Jack knew. He'd never gotten any of the credit.

Jack, as usual, was the main planner of field missions, both because of his greater experience and unmatched talent, and because it was his life that was usually on the line. He planned every detail of every operation to the extent that he could, but he knew that there had to be leeway, for nothing could ever be fully anticipated, something no agent not trained in field ops, including Tony, could ever understand or accept. Jack always preferred working with other agents who had actual field ops experience, for they understood the need for flexibility, and they were prepared to work with Jack, even behind Tony's back. This helped to assuage some of Jack's concerns, for it lessened Jack's worry that Tony would interfere once Jack actually insinuated himself into a situation. He relied on his instincts and his skills after that.

With the Cordilla virus it was the same thing. He knew that he had to get it to stop its spread, and with Gael and a reluctant Tony his plan was re-activated so he could manipulate the Salazars to buy it. This had meant going undercover again, the last thing Jack had wanted to do, but he had sucked it up and done his duty, the cost to himself unknowable to anyone else, the result to himself, The Letter, impossible to anticipate. He had saved the day, saved the country, and they had thrown him out. Without warning, without ceremony, they had sent The Letter.

Chapter 4

He resisted taking a beer from the fridge despite his jumpiness, for it was only noon, and he wouldn't substitute one bad habit for another. Although alcohol had been seriously discouraged in rehab, for all abusable substances and activities had been discouraged along with drugs, Jack hadn't felt the need to abstain from beer. He'd never had a drinking problem, and he wasn't afraid he'd develop one, but he saw no reason to tempt himself. No, he wouldn't drink because he was upset.

He also wasn't going to let himself wallow in pity. He put on his sweats and went for a run. He knew the endorphines would kick in after a mile, and that would help. He'd go to the gym afterward and do a full work-out, keeping his muscles toned and his heart strong, remembering that he'd suffered heart damage, again in the line of duty, at the ripe old age of thirty-seven. Had the agency considered what had happened to him physically when he'd risked his ass, over and over, to do what was demanded? No, of course not. No, he'd violated their precious regulations, and though he'd risked his ass, they'd thrown him out on it.

The run did the good he'd expected. He was in a better mood when he tossed his gym bag in his car, still an agency SUV, he'd have to turn that in so for the first time in many years he'd have to buy his own car, another expense he couldn't afford. Maybe he'd have to apply for those benefits. The high from the run started to drop, and he sped a little as he drove to the gym. He couldn't afford a let-down again.

Leg, arm and pec exercises, lifting weights, another long run around the indoor track and he was feeling better again. He showered and changed and decided to stop for a beer. It was three o'clock, and he wanted some company. He didn't want to go back to his empty house.

There was a ball game on in the near-empty bar, and it was better than nothing. He wasn't a regular there, but the bartender nodded and put a draft before him, and Jack paid him right away. He wasn't going to run a tab. A man two stools away started to talk to him about the Dodgers, and although Jack wasn't particularly interested he replied, and let himself be drawn into a conversation. It was why he hadn't driven straight home.

Jack allowed himself another beer before the game ended, and then he drove to a car dealership that was on his way home. He put a deposit on an SUV that was identical to the one he usually drove at CTU, comfortable both with its familiarity and the way it handled. He ordered the GPS that was available, knowing that the other gadgets that he'd had in the agency cars wouldn't come with the one he was ordering. He wondered idly if he'd miss them, then decided he wouldn't mind not being able to ID a dead man's thumb print on his dashboard. He smiled to himself, a smile the dealer mistook for pleasure with the car, and he tried to sell Jack on more options, but Jack quickly told the man he was happy with what he'd ordered, and after arranging for delivery he left. That he'd ordered the SUV in agency black he didn't consider until later.

He stopped for Chinese on his way home, his favorite take-out, for he'd never really learned to cook and he hadn't eaten yet that day. He'd expended a lot of energy with his work-out, and he'd be damned if he'd waste away because he was unemployed. He'd always kept himself in shape, and he wasn't about to stop now.

Chapter 5

The next few days passed slowly, the only bright spot being his daily runs and work-outs, the only variations his choice of Italian, Chinese or sushi for dinner, whatever he was in the modd for on his way home from the gym. He allowed himself a beer with dinner each night and then he settled in before the TV, trying first to find a hockey game and, failing that, a decent baseball game. Any hockey game was better than the best baseball was his feeling, but LA had never been much of a hockey town, and he decided then and there to find a game of his own. He'd always meant to, but with the demands of CTU there'd never been any point. He would have never been able to get there. All that was changed now.

A few days later, when he woke up with the sun streaming into his eyes he decided to do something different, and he went to the garage to check the condition of his board. He hadn't surfed in years, but he couldn't find a reason not to start again. He'd get it waxed at a shop at the beach, and he'd give it a go.

He was careful to put on a wet suit, for he had no desire to have anyone stare at the myriad of scars that covered his body, the ones he knew you could use to connect the dots, and he wondered idly if it would form a church, 'Our Lady of Cordilla,' or something like that. He caught himself, the bitterness in his mind, and he commanded himself to stop it. He wasn't going to let himself get bitter, to grow old when he was only thirty-nine and hate the world, hate his life. It wasn't over yet, not if he didn't want it to be, and he didn't. They'd thrown everything they had at him, but it wasn't enough. He was going to come out on top. He didn't know how, yet, but he would.

He had to go to the drug store to get bungy cords to tie the board to the top of the SUV, the one he'd taken delivery of two days before, when he'd turned in the one that belonged to CTU, and he'd told them that he needed a ride home. Their response was that they weren't authorized to do that, so Jack's parting words to CTU were "go fck yourselves." It seemed appropriate, and it felt good. So instead of having the cab take him home he went straight to the dealer and picked up his new car, sorry then that he'd gotten a black one.

He wrestled the board on top of the SUV, a new experience, for the last time he'd surfed he'd had a regular car, a teen-ager's car, low-slung, a used sports car, and he laughed to himself that in those days he'd never have imagined himself as a thirty-nine year old with a black truck. Hell, in those days he couldn't have imagined himself as a thirty-nine year old. He'd made it, though, despite all the wounds, the injuries, all the hell that the scars on his body represented, and suddenly they seemed like badges of honor to him. He'd survived far worse than getting fired, far, far worse; he hadn't begun to see the limits of what he could do. He remembered the words of his rehab counselor. He hadn't even begun to live.

Chapter 6

The day at the beach was like a re-birth. He reveled in the water, in discovering that, as with so much, he hadn't missed a beat. It came back to him like the proverbial fall from a bike, and he rode the big ones as easily and well as he had as a kid. He needn't have worried about the wet suit, for none of the other surfers would have noticed anything on his body, even if he'd been covered with tar and feathers. They were all too enthralled watching this old-timer ride the waves like they wished they could. In a single day Jack Bauer was again King of the Beach.

He slept well that night for the first time since he got The Letter, worn out by the sun and the waves, and relaxed by the feeling of knowing that he could still do what he wanted and needed to do. With the return of his self-confidence came a return of his feeling of well-being. He was back on track.

Chapter 7

In the days that followed Jack gave serious thought to what he could do with the rest of his life. He knew that he was more than a paid assassin; above all, he had his mind. He went back to his first love, his books.

When he sold the house he'd also sold the furniture, the nick-knacks, everything that was part of the house, but two things he was very careful to take: all the family pictures, and his books. In the days and months after Teri died he lost himself in the photo albums, putting in the loose pictures that Teri had missed, going through the pages of the books she'd started when Kim was born and had lovingly continued until they'd separated. It seemed she'd lost the heart to continue then, and it was that that started Jack crying. For the first time he saw pictures that Teri had taken when they were apart, pictures of Kim at school, in plays and at sports events, things Jack hadn't attended because he'd thought they would make Teri uncomfortable, although he'd been desperate to see her, to be in the same room with her, even if they were on opposite sides of that room. But he'd respected her wishes and stayed away, so the photos were a revelation, the life Teri and Kim had led when he wasn't there. These he lovingly put in the album, and he looked at them over and over, willing himself into the pictures with them, trying to make them into a threesome, crying at the futility of it. Finally he'd put them back on the shelf and kept only the picture of him with Teri and Kim, taken right after the reconciliation, the one he stared at for hours and curled up with at night, torturing and tormenting himself with memories of the things that were, and thoughts of what should have been.

He spent a lot of days surfing, going to the gym and sitting on his deck overlooking the Marina, reading and staring out at the boats and the horizon. Always, always in the back of his mind was his future. As he rested his spirit healed, and he knew he was ready to make some decisions.

Chapter 8

He knew the general lay-out of the campus of course, but there'd been so much construction over the years that he was pleased that he only had to ask for directions three times in order to get to the admissions building. When he finally found the right office he walked, more tentatively than he liked, to the window.

"I'm interested in applying to the English department," he told the young man there.

"What for?" the man asked.

Jack was taken aback by the boy's grammar, or lack of it. He hoped he wasn't a product of the school. "The doctoral program," Jack replied. "In English Literature."

"What's your undergrad degree in?" the boy asked.

"English Literature," Jack replied, trying not to sound annoyed.

"From where?"

"Here. UCLA."

"When'd you graduate?" The kid couldn't sound stupider, Jack thought. Or less interested. Students didn't sound like this when I was here.

"I graduated in 1988," Jack replied with dignity, determined not to stoop to monosyllabic words and sentences.

"'kay," came the response. "That's on 'fiche. I'll havta look it up. Wait a minute."

Jack cooled his heels by looking at the various messages tacked to the boards on the office walls, listing scholarships being offered, used books and cars for sale, students looking for roommates, apartments, bikes, rides, the psych department looking for subjects for experiments. The last one caught his eye. I wonder whether I'd fit their criteria, he thought, a slight smile forming. I wonder what they'd make of me.

He was so bemused by the thought that the clerk had to call his name twice. "Mr. Bauer, Mr. Bauer? I have your transcript."

Jack walked back to the window and saw a fuzzy copy of his record, which the kid was perusing carefully. "Um, you had a 3.8 GPA. You graduated Magna cum Laude and Phi Beta Kappa?"

"Yes," Jack replied, impressed that the kid had even heard of the academic honors, and allowing himself to be impressed with himself. He'd accomplished a lot as an undergrad, along with an early marriage and a baby. "Now, how do I go about applying for the program?"

"You'll have to go to the department office with the transcript. I hafta put the official seal on it, and then ya go and take it with ya to them."

Jack turned to go, but then he had a question. "Have they moved the English Department?"

Chapter 9

The department secretary made an appointment for him with the chairman - chairwoman - of the doctoral admissions committee, and Jack was surprised at how nervous he was as he drove back to the campus the following week. The only other interview, the only other job interview, and that was how he had to think of this, that he'd ever had, was when he'd joined CTU, and that seemed a lifetime ago. And that was easier, for he'd been switching from Special Forces to counter-terrorism – the other side of the same coin. Going to academia from CTU, that was – he couldn't even think of a better analogy. That would be another life.

He had allowed plenty of time, for parking was far worse than when he'd been an undergrad, and that had been the chief topic of grumbling even then. He found a spot only half a mile from the new English building – new to him, but the department had moved there more than fifteen years ago – and he had time for a cup of coffee before the interview.

He stopped in at one of the many Starbucks that had sprung up on campus, ordering a regular coffee, for he'd never developed a taste for anything other than the strong, black nectar his body had come to rely on through so many endless days. He sat outside dressed in a suit that made him look decidedly out of place on campus, but he knew that casual attire would be wrong for this meeting. He was all too aware of the blank spaces on his application, and of the questions they would bring. The best he could do was hope to make a good personal impression.

He got to the office five minutes early, just as he'd planned, and he sat in the waiting room. The door opened and a woman in her mid-fifties, well-dressed in a pink suit trimmed in black, with dark hair and eyes, extended a hand well-manicured with red polish and said, "Please come in, Mr. Bauer. I'm Lorraine Simonson."

As Jack walked in to a small conference room with a round table she motioned to him to sit and said, "It's a pleasure to meet you. Dr. Joseph Walker and Dr. Al Haber will be joining us presently. Their classes are just ending. Would you like some coffee in the meantime, Mr. Bauer? Or tea?"

"No, thank you, Dr. Simonson, I'm fine."

The door from the waiting area opened and two men entered. Jack stood and Dr. Simonson introduced them. "Mr. Bauer, this is Al Haber, professor of contemporary literature." He was a small man, about 5'3", chunky, balding, in his early 40s. He wore a short-sleeve plaid shirt open at the neck and khakis, and he had a smile in his eyes that made Jack relax.

"Hello, Dr. Haber, Jack Bauer."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Bauer."

"And this is Joseph Walker, professor of medieval literature," Lorraine Simonson said, and Jack turned to face him. Walker was taller than Jack, thin, with gray hair and bushy eyebrows, in his mid-sixties, dressed like a professor from central casting in a dress shirt and tie and a tweed jacket with suede patches on the elbows and corduroy pants, even though the temperature was in the mid-70's, and he looked like he hadn't smiled in his life. In fact, the man looked positively grim. The flip side of Haber, Jack thought, but he kept a friendly smile on his face.

"Hello, Dr. Walker," Jack said. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Sit down, Mr. Bauer. Let's get started, shall we?" The question from Walker was a command, and Jack had no doubt about it.

"We've studied your application, Mr. Bauer, and we have certain questions," said Simonson pleasantly. "There seem to be some...gaps in your application."

"Holes, you mean," said Walker, sounding sour. "Entire sections incomplete. Missing. What do you think this is, Bauer, a game? You graduated almost twenty years ago, and in the part of the application that asks specifically for your work experience since graduation you wrote 'government service,' nothing more. What the hell does that mean? Were you the President? Were you the President's mistress? What the hell did you do all that time? You're lucky we even gave you this interview. Lorraine insisted on it because you were an outstanding undergraduate student. What did you do in all that time?"

"Dr. Walker, the work that I did was classified. I meant no disrespect by leaving parts of the application blank, but I couldn't reveal the information that was requested. I still can't."

"Bauer, Bauer," Jack heard Haber mutter. "Bauer! I knew I knew that name! You're the guy with the virus! The one who stopped the virus! And you found the nuke, and you saved Palmer! You're that guy!"

There was silence in the room. "Is that true, Mr. Bauer? Are you that man?" Dr. Simonson was looking at Jack; Walker was glaring at him.

"That information is classified, Dr. Simonson. I'm sorry, but I can't discuss it."

"But it's in all the papers!" Haber insisted. "It's been on the news, all over the TV!"

Mention of television drew a dirty look from Walker. Jack made a mental bet that the man didn't own one.

He replied, "I know, Dr. Haber. But I can't publicly comment on it."

"I see," Dr. Simonson mused. "You can't 'confirm or deny,' is that it, Mr. Bauer?"

"Yes," Jack agreed, glad that she understood. "I'm not allowed to discuss anything I did in government service."

"Interesting phrase, 'government service,'" she continued. "It covers a lot of things."

Jack didn't know how to answer that. His thought was, if only you knew. If only you knew.

Walker spoke again. "That doesn't change anything. You still have to explain what you've done in all that time, or we can't evaluate your fitness for the program. Have you read, Mr. Bauer? In your 'government service,'" and his voice was acerbic, "did you actually read?"

"Yes, Dr. Walker, I read constantly," Jack replied, determined not to let his annoyance show, or to give in to his overwhelming wish to strangle the man.

"What did you read, Mr. Bauer? Government training manuals? Spy novels?"

"Yes, Dr. Walker, I read manuals. My first love is 20th century literature, Hemingway, Faulkner, dos Passos, and a lot of newer authors, but that's not all I read. Not by any means. I also read Trollope, Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, Twain, James, Keats, Milton, Bacon. I'd have to describe my reading as – eclectic." Jack knew he hadn't made Walker any happier, for a medieval lit expert would most likely disdain anything more current. But Jack had given up on Walker. The man clearly had it in for him, for reasons Jack didn't know, and probably never would. He'd met such men before. He could only hope that the other two professors in the room would evaluate him more fairly.

"Mr. Bauer, why are you interested in a career change now? And, excuse me, but it seems like such a drastic change. Your past experiences are so, well, dramatic, and to come to academia, I just can't fathom why you would want to. Wouldn't it be too – too dry for you? Too tame?" Dr. Simonson had asked this hesitantly, framing her words carefully, for she clearly didn't wanted to offend him, yet it was a legitimate question. She wanted an answer, and Jack knew she was entitled to one. He just didn't know how to give it.

Jack took his time before answering. He knew he couldn't tell them he'd been fired, for there was no way he could explain the circumstances. Even if they hadn't been classified, no civilian could possibly understand. But how else to account for his wish to become an English professor?

"It was time for me to make a change, Professor." He started slowly, wanting to be sure of his words. "As you've surmised, I led a life that was very demanding. I couldn't simply be a different kind of government servant. It just doesn't work like that. I had to leave the government altogether. When I considered what I want to do with the rest of my life I decided that what I really want to do is teach. I taught some classes when I was with the government, not the kind I can tell you about, but I enjoyed being an instructor. I've always loved literature, and I decided I want to teach it. I think I have a lot to offer, and my years here at UCLA were some of the best of my life. So I decided to apply to the department for my PhD."

Simonson and Haber looked at each other, while Walker continued to glare. "Is there anyone who can give you a reference, Mr. Bauer?" Dr. Simonson asked.

Jack was taken aback by the question, for it had never entered his mind. People at CTU left only two ways, and neither required a reference: they were either terminated or they were promoted up the ladder until they retired. But there was a catch: Jack had never heard of a field agent at CTU who'd ever been terminated without being buried. He was the first.

"I don't think they give references, Dr. Simonson," he began, speaking slowly so he could think. "That would mean acknowledging that someone was even employed there, and that's not something they do. I've never heard of it being done," he continued, relieved that this part, at least, was truthful.

"Mr. Bauer, considering all you've supposedly done for the government, for the country, don't you think they'd make an exception for you? Surely the President would give you a letter of recommendation?" The word 'president' sounded like a curse coming from Walker.

"No, Dr. Walker, I don't think he would, or could. There are regulations in place for national security reasons, and exceptions aren't made to those unless it's for national security. I know that sounds circular, but that's the way it is."

"You killed a lot of people, didn't you, Bauer?" Walker was relentless.

"Dr. Walker, I can't discuss my actions with you. Sir, as I explained, my work for the government is classified."

"You killed prison guards, Bauer. Innocent men. You killed them playing Russian Roulette, for God's sake! You played games with their lives! And the people at that hotel. Hundreds of them, defenseless children. Doesn't that bother you? You sit here and say you want to teach young people, and you killed children. Babies! You're an assassin, a robot who kills when the government tells you to. You don't belong in a classroom, you belong in jail. You'll be a student here over my dead body." Walker looked murderous himself, and it took all Jack had to restrain himself from telling the man what he was thinking.

"Dr. Walker, what I did I did in the line of duty, to protect the lives of the people in this country. That's all I'm going to say about it. That's all I can say, and I wouldn't try to justify myself to you even if I could tell you everything I did. I acted honorably, sir, in everything I did, and while you might not like it, I saved your life. More times than you'll ever know. And I'm not going to sit here and be insulted by you."

Jack got up to leave, his anger blocking out his disappointment, because he knew that he would never get to teach, to fulfill his dream, for every other university would view him in the same way, as a killer, unfit to study, unfit to work with students.

"Sit down, Mr. Bauer," Dr. Simonson said quietly. "This interview isn't over."

Jack looked at her in surprise, for he had thought that it most definitely was over. The look on her face said otherwise.

"Dr. Walker is not the only member of the committee, Mr. Bauer. He, Dr. Haber and I are just the initial intake screeners. We make a recommendation to the full committee, which has ten members. Based on our recommendation you may be asked to come back for a further interview with the entire doctoral admissions committee."

Jack sat back, unsure of whether he could submit himself to another session like this, even if he was asked. His desire to slug Walker was still too strong, and the thought of having to defend himself to more strangers was sickening.

He didn't respond but he continued to sit at the table, meeting Simonson's steady gaze. Finally Haber spoke. "I, for one, am going to recommend to the committee that you be admitted to the program, Mr. Bauer. Your undergraduate record is outstanding, and I don't believe that your work since you graduated is a negative. In point of fact, your service to your country, our country, was outstanding, and anyone who would hold it against you is a narrow-minded imbecile." He ignored the withering glare Walker threw at him. "I think you would be a credit to this department."

"I agree," added Dr. Simonson quietly. "I shall make the same recommendation to the committee. Expect to hear from us soon."

She and Haber stood up, and so did Jack. As they shook hands and exchanged good-byes Walker remained seated and ignored them all. Jack left the room, not quite sure of what had happened.

Chapter 10

As Dr. Simonson had said, Jack received a phone call a few days later, 'inviting' him to an interview with the whole admissions committee. He considered not going but that lasted bare minutes, and he called back quickly to accept the invitation and schedule the meeting.

He was far more nervous as the time approached, for he was sure that Walker would not be the only committee member hostile to him – hell, not just hostile, but antagonistic, belligerent, downright hateful. He knew he would never be able to assuage them, convince them that he was, in fact, a decent man; no matter what he said, they would only see him as a mass murderer.

Once again he dressed as he knew a professional should, and timed his arrival at the department perfectly. As he was ushered into the department's large conference room he saw that they array of professors around the long table was looking at him in different ways: some with curiosity, some with uncertainty, hostility from a group, as he expected, but surprisingly several with sympathy. Odd, he thought. I've never thought of myself as a sympathetic person. It was something to ponder.

"Why don't we get started?" Dr. Simonson, as the head of the committee, asked the group as she motioned to Jack to sit at one end of the conference table while she sat at the other. "You've all seen my recommendation, as well as Al's and Joe's, and Mr. Bauer's application. We'll go from there."

She looked directly at Jack. "Mr. Bauer, first I'd like to introduce you to the members of the committee, and then we can start with the actual interview. We'll try to keep it from turning into an inquisition." She smiled as she said it, but Jack saw that she was merely trying to encourage him; there was no promise behind her words.

After the introductions were made, the first question was posed by a poetry professor whose writings Jack had read and enjoyed over the years. It hadn't prepared him for what followed. "Mr. Bauer, how many people have you killed?"

There was a hush in the room, and Jack considered walking out. He was overwhelmed by anger, but he kept his voice even. "Dr. Gruber, I can't answer that, and even if I could, I wouldn't. I'm not going to sit here and justify what I did in my years of serving my country. As I explained at my original interview my actions are classified, and I expect they will remain so. However, I recognize that certain missions have been attributed to me in the press. I can neither confirm nor deny them. All I can say is that I did whatever I did in service to my country, and while there are things in my past that I regret, they were all necessary, and I have at all times conducted myself with dignity, and acted as honorably and honestly as I could."

He continued after a deep breath. "I am sure that each and every one of you has regrets about things in your pasts, things you wish you'd done differently, but none of us can go back and change them. All we can do, the best we can do, is ask for forgiveness, pray for forgiveness if that is our nature, and go on and do the best we can."

"In my case, I hope to teach. I would like the opportunity to work with young people, to try to impart my love of literature, not as expiation, but because I believe I can be enthusiastic and effective as an instructor. If any of my personal experiences come through, in a general way, a way that reflects my feelings of honor and dignity and duty, I would consider that a plus."

There was another silence in the room, but it didn't last long. Gruber had drawn blood, and others had picked up the scent. "Mr. Bauer, I'm Professor Jacob Drescher. According to press reports your escapades," and he said the word with a distaste, "have occurred in the last four years, but you supposedly worked for this CTU for more than twelve. What other missions did you have besides these? How many more people died?"

Jack breathed in deeply, barely controlling himself, and again ready to head for the door. "Dr. Drescher, I can't answer that. As I've said before, my work with the government is classified."

"But you did work with CTU, this Counter-Terrorism Unit?"

"It's called the Counter-Terrorist Unit, and no, sir, I can't confirm or deny that I worked there. All of that information is classified. I'm sorry. I can't give you any information."

"This is ridiculous," Walker interjected loudly, "and an insult to this committee, this department, and the whole university. You want us to accept you into our doctoral program, one of the finest in the country, knowing you're a killer, a cold-blooded killer, and you won't even tell us the truth about it. Your very presence here is an abomination. Leave now." His order was said with venom.

Loud arguments broke out among various people on the committee, some members trying to shout down others. A voice rose over the group. "Fred, Jim, you know that Joe doesn't speak for this committee," but the words seemed to have no effect. The speaker was Dr. Richard Leighton, the deputy chairman of the department, and a professor of Shakespeare.

He addressed his fellow professors, speaking more loudly, almost shrilly, with an angry tone. "Everyone, calm down." The yelling stopped.

Dr. Simonson, who hadn't been able to make her voice heard above the din, gratefully looked at Leighton. Having regained control of the meeting she said, "I think a brief recess would be in order," and told the others to reassemble in fifteen minutes. She hoped it would be enough time for everyone to remember they were professionals, and act accordingly.

Jack sat alone at the end of the table as the professors started to file out of the room, but many of them headed towards him. Several introduced themselves personally, and seemed chagrined at the attacks that had been made upon him.

"Jack, I'm Dick Leighton," his savior said. "I'm sorry this deteriorated like this. Many, most of us, don't feel this way at all. Let's get some coffee and get out of here for awhile. At least we can get away from the cabal."

Jack knew exactly who Leighton was referring to, and as he glanced at the group that included Walker, Drescher and Gruber, he saw two others walk with them; there was a total of five professors arrayed against him. That meant that he would be denied admission, so he might as well give up now. There was no point in subjecting himself to more of this. He knew that 60 of the committee had to vote for him to be granted admission to the program. There was no way he'd get enough votes.

Chapter 11

The recess hadn't changed a thing. The tension that permeated the room when the 'interview' resumed was about as strong as any Jack had experienced. He couldn't believe the back-stabbing and jealousies that permeated academe, among such cerebral, learned people.

Jack saw that the 'camps,' those possibly for him and those clearly against him were now sitting on opposite sides of the long conference table, and none of the investigations and de-briefings he'd had at CTU had prepared him for this. The inquiries at the agency had been conducted by people who knew what he was up against, what he had done, why he'd done what he had, who'd known of his abilities; these people had suspicions, nothing more, and with their sheltered lives limited to books and research done in the safety of their libraries they had no experience with 'real life,' they had never had to contend with threats to their own survival and those they loved, let alone their country and the world.

The academics interrogating him lived in a cocoon, a vacuum, and had no knowledge that evil was real; it was not limited to characters in books. Jack was overcome with the realization that he could never fit in here, even with the ones who seemed to be on 'his' side. No, this had all been a mistake, a pipedream. He had to find a way to end this, without being rude. Even more, he realized, he didn't want to confirm their perceptions of him. He wasn't a monstrous killer, he was a man, a good, decent man. He would maintain his dignity, no matter what.

When Dr. Simonson again called the meeting to order Jack asked if he could speak. She appeared surprised, but she granted his request.

"I don't want to cause a problem for the department, and that's what I think is happening here," Jack started. "It seems rather obvious to me that my application won't be approved, so I want to withdraw it. I want to thank the committee for your time and your courtesies." With that said, he rose and started for the door.

"Mr. Bauer," a voice said behind him, and Jack turned. It was Dr. Drescher. "I think you're being rather presumptuous. We haven't taken a vote, and until we do there's no way of knowing whether your application will be approved or not. Our meetings are frequently contentious, and sometimes downright rude. We certainly have been rude to you, and for that I apologize."

"Frankly, I'm surprised that you're giving up, Mr. Bauer. Given your history, your reputation, that's the last thing I'd expect from you. I never thought you were the kind of man who'd cut and run."

Jack didn't know what to say. Drescher had seemed like one of Jack's most vitriolic attackers. Now he was saying that the outcome couldn't be predicted.

Jack remained standing, possibly more confused than he'd been in his life; before he'd always had a clear objective, clear options, risks to be recognized and weighed, but that wasn't what he faced now. Now was the real unknown. The only thing Jack could infer was that he might be making a mistake if he gave up. But Drescher's words sank in - he'd never cut and run in his life. He couldn't, wouldn't, start now. He wasn't that kind of man.

He sat down again, and the questioning resumed. There were more hostile questions, some downright vicious, more than implying that Jack was evil, one professor going so far as to compare Jack to Adolph Eichmann. Jack was surprised to recognize that he knew that particular professor, James Connaught, who said that Jack was a Nazi who only followed the orders of a genocidal government and actually deserved execution. Jack fought back against that one, beginning to respond by describing a mission that had personally saved Connaught and his family when they were trapped overseas by terrorists, but he caught himself in time, for that mission, that rescue, was classified. Connaught would never know that Jack personally had been the one who saved them, and had spent two months in the hospital because of it. Connaught would never know that the government he so loathed and decried, and the former agent before him, had been his and his family's saviors; he would always pompously believe that he and he alone, through his self-remarked and self-loved powers of persuasion had convinced the terrorists to let them go. That had been one of the 'gaps' in the application Jack could not fill in.

Instead, his obligation to maintain secrecy always in his mind, Jack couldn't even mention Connaught's capture and rescue, and could say only in general that the government did everything it could to keep its citizens safe, hoping that Connaught would somehow get the message and finally recognize that he and his loved ones had been saved by people whose names he would never know, and maybe, just maybe, might wonder if Jack had been one of them. It would never happen, of course, and Jack knew it; Connaught was too haughty, too arrogant, too self-righteous, too in love with his own intellect and powers of persuasion to ever acknowledge that. The government was evil in his mind, and Connaught believed that he, and only he, was clever enough to rescue his family. He loathed Jack for being part of that government, and he always would. One vote against. One unchangeable vote.

Walker was also unswayable, as Jack was certain were Gruber and two others who sat with them. Drescher was the surprise. Perhaps he would vote for Jack. Perhaps he had merely spoken as he had to be the voice of reason, but was still against Jack. He had no way of knowing.

Jack knew he needed six votes, and there were four, but maybe five, against him. He knew that Simonson and Haber had recommended a further interview by the full committee, and he assumed that they were in favor of his application. There were other members of the committee who hadn't spoken, so he had no way of gauging their feelings. But the interview was coming to a close. At least he wouldn't be attacked any more.

"Mr. Bauer," Dr. Simonson rose as she addressed him, "you'll be advised of the committee's decision in a few days. I want to thank you, on behalf of all of us, for your time and patience with the procedure. And personally I want to thank you for submitting to this. I assure you that the members of this department are professionals, as I know you are a professional. We usually treat each other with the courtesy and respect not only professionals, but all people, are entitled to and deserve. I deeply regret that wasn't the case today."

She paused, and gave him a small smile. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Bauer. And good luck."

As he left the room Jack felt a tremendous relief that it was over, and a great let down. That 'good luck.' Did it mean 'in your future endeavors,' like The Letter? Or with the committee's vote?

Chapter 12

The next couple of days were interminable, as Jack suspected they would be, and the only respite was an unexpected call from Kim. "Dad," she started, "would you like to get together? Would you like to have lunch?"

Jack felt better than if he'd gotten an acceptance from the university. Instantly his perspective came back, and his priorities fell into place. "Sweetheart, nothing would make me happier," the joy in his voice coming through clearly to Kim. "When is good for you? I'm pretty free these days."

As soon as he said it he hoped it wouldn't sound bitter to her. He hoped she wouldn't take it the wrong way. He was trying to come to terms with his situation, trying to deal with his dashed hopes for his application to UCLA, and he was telling himself that he would find something else to do, and not just to fill his time. That there was more ahead for him, and that it would be good.

"How's today, Dad? I know it's short notice, but I've got a sitter, so if you can make it I thought I could come down and we could go to Louie's." It was a restaurant at the Marina that they'd gone to when they'd first moved in and they were talking, when Kim hadn't always been sulky and had condescended to spend time with her dad, and Jack had loved every minute of it. The idea of going there with her now stopped him from even suggesting that they go somewhere closer to her home so she wouldn't have to make the long drive down.

"Louie's is great, Sweetheart. When should I make the reservation for?"

"How's one, Dad? I can have the sitter here at noon, and that'll give me enough time. I'll stop at the house and then we can walk over. Is that okay?"

"That's perfect, Kim. I'll call the restaurant. I can't wait, Sweetheart. It'll be so good to see you."

"I know, Dad. I want to see you, too."

As he hung up the phone Jack realized that this was what he'd really been living for.

Chapter 13

Kim arrived promptly at 12:45, and she came willingly into Jack's arms for a long hug. Then he pulled back and studied her face. She looked wonderful.

"Married life agrees with you, Sweetheart. You look happier than I've ever seen you."

"I'm very happy, Dad. Chase is a wonderful husband, and Angela is incredible. I want you to get to know her, to be a part of her life. She's such a sweetie, Dad. I think you'll fall in love with her."

"I'm sure I will, Kim," Jack said, thrilled that he would be back in Kim's life. He didn't know what had caused the turn-around in Kim's attitude towards him, and he didn't care. He certainly wasn't going to question it.

"How's Chase doing?" he asked quietly as they walked to the restaurant. "How's his hand?"

"It's okay," she replied. "He got about 80 function back, and the prosthesis they fitted him with is amazing. With it he has almost total use of the hand now, and almost no phantom pain. That was the worst part, he said, Dad. Feeling like his hand was still there. But they gave him treatments for that, and it helped, it really did. And having function restored helped him tremendously emotionally."

"How's the job going?" was the next question.

"Pretty well," Kim responded. "There are times I think he misses the excitement of field ops, but without his hand, even if he had full use with the prosthesis, he couldn't do field ops, and, well, doing private security is okay. You know he said he wanted to transfer to the floor, even before it happened, but this is better for him. It's more active than analysis, and closer to what he wants without actually being on field missions. He's still serving his country, Dad, and that's what he cares about the most. You know his company works under contract to the CIA, so it's basically the same as working directly for CTU. It's just kind of a cross between working in the field and doing analysis. So he's okay with it."

"I'm so glad, Sweetheart. You know how I feel about him, and for you two to be together, and happy, that's all I want."

"Dad, Chase doesn't blame you for what happened." She said this in a rush, looking at Jack closely, knowing how important this was to him. "I know you think he does, but he doesn't. You saved his life, saved the city, and he knows it."

She paused, biting her lip, hesitant to go one. Then her eyes filled with tears. "I was mad at you, that's why I cut you off – God, that's an awful thing to say – but Chase convinced me I was wrong. None of it was your fault. You saved him, you saved all of us. What they did to you, throwing you out – it was disgusting. And what I did to you, turning my back on you, throwing you out of my life – Dad, I wouldn't blame you for hating me, but I know you don't. I know you love me, Daddy. And I want you to know how much I love you, and I want us to be close again. Can we, Dad? Can we?"

The tears running down his cheeks were totally beyond Jack's control. He pulled his daughter to him, hugging her tightly, not noticing or caring who stared at them as they stood on the sidewalk, crying and laughing. Finally they pulled apart, and wiping tears from their faces they continued to the restaurant.

They both ordered beers with their crab cakes, Jack still surprised that his little girl was old enough to drink, and noticing that she wasn't even 'proofed.' Time had passed, indeed.

Chapter 14

Jack's work-out late that afternoon was even more strenuous, for after he allowed himself time to digest his food he wanted to maintain the emotional high he'd gotten from his reunion with Kim, and he knew the endorphines would help him stay that way. His put some of his favorite piano jazz cd's in his player and worked out on the machines for forty minutes, longer than his usual routine, before he ran four miles around the track, and then he headed for the pool and swam laps for more than half an hour. Only then did he hit the showers and head for home, ravenous despite the large lunch he otherwise never had.

Takeout didn't seem fitting for such a fine day so Jack decided to go to one of his favorite restaurants, one along the beach, known for its fine steaks and batter-dipped onion rings, a favorite of his. Carbs and cholesterol be damned tonight, he thought.

As he pulled into the parking lot he saw that it was crowded, and he went to the bar to wait. It wasn't a club or a place that catered to a young crowd; it was an attractive restaurant where older couples - God, am I there? he thought in alarm - went for a fine meal and fine conversation. He ordered a Chivas but resisted the peanuts; he was saving himself for the steak he'd order, medium rare. He only wished he had someone to share it with, and it was like he had a Fairy God Mother or something: all of a sudden, his wish was granted.

Across the bar he saw a woman he knew, Lesley Kramer, a doctor who'd taken care of him when he'd been in the hospital for one of his injuries, he didn't even remember which one, and as he'd grown stronger he'd instinctively liked her then, but he hadn't been in any kind of position – flat on his back with tubes sticking out of every conceivable part of his body – to get to know her. She seemed to be alone sitting at the bar, and he took his almost-empty glass and walked over to her. As she looked up she didn't appear too welcoming to anyone who might be trying to pick her up. Her expression changed when she saw Jack.

"Mr. Bauer," she said in surprise. "You look much better than the last time I saw you."

"I'm fine, thanks, Doc, more than partly thanks to you," Jack replied with a smile. There was no ring on her hand. "Are you here with someone?" He was surprising himself; he was never this forward.

"No," she answered, "I only wanted a night to myself." She saw the look on Jack's face and hurriedly added, "but I'm very glad to see you. I just didn't want some guy to hit on me."

"Well, I'll leave you alone then. I just thought you might want some company."

"Please stay, Jack. I'd love some company."

"Can I get you another?" Jack asked, motioning to her drink as he sat on the stool next to her.

"No, thanks, I'm not ready," she said. "I don't go through a lot of those."

"Well, if you don't mind I'm going to have a re-fill."

"Of course I don't mind," Lesley replied. "Feel free."

Jack motioned the bartender over, who poured him another scotch. He lifted his glass to her. "To a superb doctor," he said. "You saved my life."

She looked embarrassed, but she smiled. "Thank you. You were a miserable patient, you know, Jack. You fought us every step of the way. You got better despite me, not because of me."

"Oh," he responded, not knowing what else to say, but he knew that what she said was right. He'd always hated hospitals, and he'd never cooperated with his doctors. Not very mature of me, he thought, but it had always seemed more important to get back out into the field, to accomplish the mission.

"Well, can we put it past us? No more doctor-patient relationship? I'm all better now, thanks to you, no false modesty here now, doctor," he said, as she started to interrupt, "and will you join me for dinner? I think my table's ready."

"I'd like that, Jack. Thank you. And the name's Lesley, you know."

When they were seated the waiter handed Jack a wine list. Jack told him they'd wait to see what they were ordering, and he turned to Lesley. "Have you been here before? Their steaks are really good."

She smiled at him. "I'm a cardiologist, Jack, so I advise my patients to avoid red meat. But I love a good steak."

They ended up sharing a Caesar salad and an order of baked clams, with Jack ordering a T-bone, medium rare, while Lesley had a filet mignon, also medium rare, and they had a basket of the onion rings Jack so highly recommended. A bottle of Napa Valley Merlot went well with the steaks..

They had a lot to talk about over dinner. Lesley lived in the hills above Malibu, and she was a widow whose husband and son had been killed three years earlier by a drunk driver. She now lived with her daughter who was finishing high school, and that night was at a school dance. She commuted to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in LA where she'd treated Jack, and she was the Chief of Cardiology there. He remembered that it was after Ronnie, after the tazers, after they'd stopped his heart and then so brutally re-started it, after the heart attack, that she'd saved him, Jack knew how hard it was for a woman to get to the top of any profession, and his respect for her grew. Losing her family like that – he knew the pain that caused, and going on afterwards, just going through the motions, the responsibilities, getting out of bed, going to work, all the while taking care of her child. He knew something about it, how he'd failed so miserably at it, and admired her for how she'd handled it far better than he had.

They fell into an easy conversation, not needing to mention the circumstances under which they'd met. Lesley knew of Jack's work with CTU, for she'd had to know; a man with those injuries hadn't gotten them falling out of bed, after all. She, too, had seen the news and knew of his work for the government, but she also had no idea of the details, or that he'd been fired. He left that part out, of course, saying merely that he'd left CTU and was in the process of changing careers, but hadn't yet decided what he wanted to do. He didn't mention the fiasco of his interview at UCLA.

"Are you still at Cedars?" he asked, not knowing if she'd changed her life around when she became a single parent.

"Yes, my daughter seems to be taking things well, but I've changed my on-call schedule so I'm home more. My husband was a doctor, too, a surgeon, and we always had a full-time housekeeper because we never wanted our kids to come home to an empty house, so even though Laura's in high school Estella's still with us. I feel better that way."

"How did you become a cardiologist?" he asked. "What drew you to that branch of medicine?" He was genuinely curious.

"I think I liked it because the heart is so central to survival. When I was in med school I saw how hard the docs worked to revive people who went into arrest, how critical time is because the stakes are so high. The cost of heart disease is death, and like all docs I fight it. That's the best way I can express it." She shook her head. "I can't remember anyone ever asking me that before. It's usually why did I become a doctor."

"What made you become a counter-terrorist agent, Jack? I know you can't talk about your work, but what drew you to it?"

He paused. He'd never put it into words, and he was afraid that whatever he said would sound trite. "I know I always wanted to serve my country, and I started out in the military, in Special Forces. I just kind of transferred to CTU, it was pretty much lateral, but there was more independence there, and I liked that. There was always a chain of command, so it was kind of para-military, but I could call the shots, and I guess I kind of chafed under all the formalities of the army." He didn't mention how many times he had ignored the chain of command at CTU, gone off on his own, been the 'loose cannon' the powers-that-be had torn their hair out over at the agency but tolerated, because he always got the results they demanded. Until he got The Letter.

The check came and Jack insisted on paying it. As they walked to the parking lot Jack asked if he could see her again. Lesley smiled and said, "I'd like that, Jack. A lot."

After she gave him her home and cell numbers he opened her car door and watched her drive away. His happy feelings from earlier in the day were even stronger.

Chapter 15

He awoke the next morning feeling down, and he was disappointed that the glow of the day before was gone. As much as he tried to concentrate on his lunch with Kim and his dinner with Lesley his thoughts kept returning to the interview that had gone so badly, and his need to decide on something else to do.

He dawdled over breakfast, not looking forward to a day that would only involve the gym. He sat at the computer and balanced his checkbook, finally facing the fact that he'd have to sell the house and move again, for he had no pension, no income, and he'd soon use up all of his savings if he didn't move to a cheaper place and find some sort of job. Any kind of job. A depression settled over him that he realized wouldn't lift until he made some very hard decisions.

He opened the newspaper to check the want ads, hoping that something would jump out at him from the job listings, a type of career that would appeal to him, one that wouldn't require training and skills he didn't already have. But in his mood that didn't seem likely. Bitterness overwhelmed him, and he could only think that it was too soon to call Lesley and he didn't want to bother Kim, make her feel that he was going to smother her, and there was no one else. He still hadn't gotten used to a life without a purpose, and he doubted that he ever would. No, he was sure that wasn't in the cards. He had to have something to do. He wasn't meant to be idle. He just wasn't built like that.

He stripped his bed and put on clean sheets, scrubbed the shower, scoured the toilet, vacuumed the house, put in a load of laundry, did the housekeeping with MSNBC on the TV in the kitchen. He hated CNN; he thought it was almost as biased as Fox News, and that made him sick to his stomach. The news itself was terrible, and he found himself wondering what was happening behind the scenes, what they were working on at CTU to counter plots and dangers that were no doubt threatening the country. He fought against it, knowing that thinking that way would only depress him more, remind him again that he'd been unceremoniously thrown out on his as, but it was a hard habit to break.

Virtually his entire adult life had been spent working against the horrors that the world presented, and he knew without false pride that he had been, hell, still was, one of the best, and that without him threats might not as easily be countered. But they'd decided that he was not only expendable, he was a threat to their precious rules and regulations, and despite what he'd told Lesley the night before he knew what he wanted to do: he wanted to be back at CTU.

He acknowledged that would never happen for he'd always been a realist, and just as realistically he knew he had to find a new career. But the thought of what else he'd told Lesley also plagued him: he'd more than chafed under the chain of command. He'd thwarted it at every turn, and maybe there had been times when he hadn't needed to. Maybe they were right, maybe he had been a loose cannon, maybe there had been time when he had broken rules for the hell of it, just because he could get away with it, and, although that was never his intent, he'd jeopardized others in the process. Unnecessarily. He hoped to God they were wrong about that, for that would be very hard to live with, but he would never know for sure.

A work-out was essential he knew, for even if he was too down for the endorphines to help much he had to get out of the house or he'd go crazy. So after he transferred the sheets to the dryer and put a load of towels in to wash he grabbed his gym back and threw it into the SUV and headed out, but he stopped at the condo mailbox first, acknowledging that he couldn't ignore the accumulation of bills that he knew would be there.. He saw the expected but dreaded letter from UCLA. With the mood he was in he tossed it in the back seat, determined not to open it until he got whatever lift he could from his work-out.

Chapter 16

More laps around the track, more weights, more laps in the pool, a shower, a beer at a bar, and he still couldn't get his mind off the damn letter. Letters, always letters. No good news comes in letters. The last one, before the one from CTU, was also from Uncle Sam, and that had demanded more taxes. A claim that he'd underpaid, which he hadn't understood, since he hadn't changed his withholding amounts when he was still employed. It had taken months to clear up, with him paying a few thousand more for underwithholding to the govenment. And bad things come in threes, right?

He drove home, conscious of what was on the back seat, and he couldn't delay it any longer. It was thin, and he remembered from his high school days the conventional wisdom that an acceptance letter was thick with forms to be completed, and a rejection letter was thin, with just a single page inside. "Dear , We have carefully considered your application for admission, but..." The one he'd taken from his mailbox was thin.

He emptied his dirty gym clothes from his bag and replaced them with clean ones, took the sheets from the dryer and folded them while he put the load of towels into the dryer, poured himself a scotch, emptied the lint bag in the vacuum cleaner, swept the deck, even vacuumed the car before he made himself sit at the kitchen table with the envelope and the scotch. Finally he slit it open.

"Dear Mr. Bauer," it started, "Please be advised that your application for admission to our doctoral program in English Literature has been carefully considered," he groaned, "and has been accepted."

He read it again.


End file.
